Joy the Baker

I’ve got a case of the lazy bones.  Serious and impervious to negotiation, lazy bones.

These lazy bones have coerced me into watching a solid five hour block of television last Friday night.  These lazy bones strong armed me into excessive Saturday and Sunday napping.  I also did that thing where you get up and make breakfast, eat it, hold you belly with the sheer joy of your accomplishment… then get back in bed… back in bed (!) for a nap.

I’ve had the best of intentions, but I learned early on this weekend (about halfway through watching my third bridal show on Friday night) that my to-do list was just going to have to sit tight and have some patience.  That’s how it goes some weekends.  Who am I to disrupt the flow?

Nuts.  I somehow roasted and fancied up hazelnuts.  This must have been done in one of the hazes between naps.  I have no real recollection, but I do have photographic evidence.  Thank heavens.  I may not fully remember making them, but I sure do remember the dream where I was shoving them into my face by the fistful.  True.

Ok…. maybe they’re not the prettiest nuts you’ve ever seen.  Delicious?  Oh.  So.  Yes.

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I like you.  I like you a lot.  I mean it… and I don’t think I’ve told you in a while.  Sweet.  I’m glad you’re here.

Would now be a good time to tell you that I have a serious, though not lasting, aversion to my kitchen these days?   I have an even more serious aversion to my oven.  For reals.

It’s just that… well, it’s summer!  There seems to be so many museums to visit, brunches to have, friends to laugh with, wine to drink… and somehow none of this fun takes place in my kitchen.

Amazingly, and through the miracle that is my freezer, I’ve managed to throw together a lovely and waaaay super easy summer recipe.  It’s apple pie meets snow cone, minus the cone, plus a hint of awesome.

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I love a good weekend project, especially when that project involves my fingers in loads of cookie dough.

I’ll admit that I may be waaaay behind the times on this trick.  It’s the sort of trick that super moms have on lock to make them look even more awesome than they already are.  Since I haven’t yet produced other people with my body, this trick is just now hitting my radar.

The idea is this:  one day… (say, maybe a lazy Saturday morning) whip up a couple batches of your favorite cookie dough.  Dollop that cookie dough onto a cookie sheet, all close like.  Throw the entire cookie sheet into the freezer.  Freeze the dough balls, then throw them into a zip lock bag and back into the freezer.  You know what that means?  All you have to do is flick on the oven and throw in a few dough balls anytime you want fresh baked cookies!  Dang this livin’ is easy!

This frozen dough ball situation is key and here’s why:

You and the family can have  fresh baked cookies any and every night.

Surprise guests?  No problem at all… you just happened to be whipping up a batch of fresh cookies.  Taaadaaa!

Bake ‘em directly from frozen…. do it!

Frozen dough balls in the middle of the night?  I won’t tell a soul.  Can I be honest?  I eat the dough balls more often than I actually bake the cookies.  In fact… be right back.  Dough ball for breakfast.

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I was notorious in my family for being the child that could only be comforted by my mother.

Most playful family weekends, the scene went something like this:  I’d be in the backyard playing with my little sister, my dad and Scamper, the family dog on our creaky, rusted and awesomely fun swing set.  My favorite move was to swing as high as I could, count to three with my sister and jump out of the swings onto the grass.  Sounds innocent enough, but I was always getting my little girl fingers stuck in the chains of the swing as I dismounted.

I’d hit the ground and look at my dad with the silent cry face… the face kids give their parents before the completely lose it and burst into tears.  My dad would invariable come over and try to talk me out of losing it, but I was already halfway into the ugly cry by then.  It was then that no one but my mom could handle the cajoling and kissing of my finger.  I’d run into the house, screaming like a maniac and clutching my (not even bleeding) finger, looking for my mother who had found just a few moments peace to take a shower or a short nap.  I’d force myself into her lap, lift the offending, pained finger, and wait for the mom comfort to blanket me.  So good.

Come to think of it, that swing set caused as many injuries as it did smiles.

Come to think of it, jumping off the swing set is always worth the hurt finger.

Come to think of it, this pudding has much the same healing qualities as my mom’s lap.

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This I Used To Believe

I believed that if I wore  a stretched out paperclip across my front teeth I would be one of the cool kids with a retainer.  It turns our that retainers only seem cool when you don’t actually have to wear one.

I believed that if I sunk down in my chair low enough in Honors Algebra, I wouldn’t be called on the answer questions that I didn’t have answers to.  I didn’t have answers to any… aaany of the questions.  In reality, that posture was like a giant, neon, blinking arrow pointed right in my direction.

I believed that if I stayed up all night chewing gum, I was bound to get the part of Violet Beauregarde in the sixth grade performance of Charlie and The Chocolate Factory.  That part went to my best friend Lindsay.  What does it say about me if I still think about that from time to time?

I believed that Dylan would never leave Brenda on Beverly Hills, 90210.  Um… remember what happened in the pool?  With Kelly!? Brenda’s best friend!?  Yea… so that didn’t work out.

I believed that really good cookies simply had to have at least a few cups of all-purpose flour flour in them.  These Flourless Peanut Butter Cookies changed my mind.  Seriously.  I know you’re thinking  They’re better than you think.  Way way better.  These are great!

This post was inspired by last weeks episode of  This American Life which, in turn, was inspired by the international essay project, This I Believe.  Yaaaaay for  public radio!

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Everyone has their own way of enjoying toasted marshmallows.  It’s very much a personal thing… this I understand.

I like my roasted, toasted marshmallows extra crispy… extra well done.  I want that sucker on  the end of the misshapen close hanger, stuck right into the depths of the fire.  I want it to come out flaming.  That’s right, I’m a marshmallow torch girl.

Apparantely, the marshmallow torch is not how you make friends at all-girl sleep away camp.  I would always get groans of disapproval from the girls that were trying to keep their precious marshmallows just far enough away from the orange coals to perfectly toast them.  Maybe they were less than thrilled with my marshmallow torch because I usually managed to set at least one of their darling marshmallows on fire just out of sheer proximity.  I considered it a favor.  Them..?  Not so much.

But these brownies aren’t really about my summer camp misadventures, are they?  These S’mores Brownies are more about fudgy, dense chocolate that bakes up with graham cracker bits and toasted marshmallows.  Toasted, not torched.

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It should come as no surprise that I relate to the world through food. Sure, I’m fairly well adjusted, I can carry on a warm conversation and function in life, but in the secret world that is my brain, I’m always trying to understand the world around me by relating it to something I’ve eaten.

Crazy? Maybe. Confusing? Let me explain.

Say I walk into my parents’ house and am greeted with a hug and kiss from my father. That’s just like eating a bowl of vanilla bean ice cream smothered with warm dulce de leche sauce. The hug from my dad and the ice cream create the same feeling in my brain. Get it?

The smell of fresh rain on concrete is just like eating a grilled cheese sandwich and tomato soup.

Having a heart to heart with my mom is just like sipping Earl Grey tea with extra sugar and milk.

Getting a paper cut is just like taking a shot of cheap tequila with salt and dry limes.

Falling absolutely, head over heals, silly in love with someone is just like smooth bourbon and cigarettes at midnight.

Sitting next to Grandmother at the dinner table and feeling her almost thoughtlessly stroke my hand as if it were her own… that’s just like this perfectly spiced Banana Cranberry Bread. Yes, there’s that much comfort in the bread. It’s the real deal.

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